


Streaks of Fuchsia / Repeat

by submissive-bangtan (Eonnie)



Series: Domestic Sub!BTS [3]
Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Babydoll!Yoongi, Edging, F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Feminization, Gentle femdom, Grooming, Hurt and comfort, Massage, Mommy Kink, Reader Insert, Reassuring Yoongi, Roleplay, Smut, anxious yoongi, dom!reader, dressing up, gagging, sub!yoongi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 22:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15496365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eonnie/pseuds/submissive-bangtan
Summary: Two erotic sub!Yoongi drabbles.





	1. Streaks Of Fuchsia

“Hey darling, look what I got.”

Yoongi unwraps the silver gift box with trembling hands. You’ve arranged everything neatly side by side. One lace bandeau in peach, a coral pink velvet choker, thigh high fishnets in powder blue on the left. On the right, apricot peep toes with ribbon lacing and a lavender thong, including miniature bows attached at the hem. If Yoongi had bought it, that would be all black and probably plain leather or latex. But today, it’s your turn. He feels a little overwhelmed at the sheer variety, anxious eyes darting into your direction while he picks up the presents to look at them.

“No need to be flustered my baby, look here,” you fondle at the bottom of the box, presenting an expensive lipstick and mascara along with other products. Now Yoongi lights up. 

“You always wanted to try this out?”

“Yes,” he glints, “but I don’t know how this works…”

“That’s okay. I’ll help, wait a moment. Put on the choker first. Sit closer, we’ll get comfortable.”

The bright fuchsia glides across his lips with ease. Lipstick is so cute on him. You made sure to buy one without harmful ingredients, hoping that he wasn’t sensitive to everything else either. You never know. It’s the first time, after all. He’s pulling the fishnets over his naked legs while you finish with the lipstick, then make him hold still for the lashes part. 

“You already know this from the stylists,” you unscrew the blue tube of mascara, “this one has just a bigger brush. Open your mouth just a bit, that relaxes your lids. I’ll pull them up a bit. I will curl them, too.”

Yoongi tries to calm himself when you bring out the eyelash curler, set it into position, gently starting to work from root to tip. You show him the results in your hand mirror, and he’s quite surprised at the difference. Then comes the mascara. The raven texture applies quite easily — Yoongi’s lashes are long, and you decide coating them three times should do the trick. You don’t have primer, but the way you curled the lashes makes them stick together less. Some caramel eyeshadow at his outer corners and the eyes are perfect. It looks good on him.

“Some gloss and blush, hm,” you ruminate before deciding to pick more from the kit. 

The gloss fails to attach properly, making his lips look almost dripping wet with iridescent particles in it. He looks gorgeous, still, and you decide to not change it. Happy accidents. The blush dusts off fast so you have to use more, almost spoiling Yoongi’s shirt. He pulls it over his head, careful not to touch his lashes. You go on dabbing the brush, leaving hot pink traces along his cheekbones. Lastly, you comb out his hair, swiping his dark bangs to the side ever so slightly. He puts on his thongs and bandeau, and you’re glad the sizes aren’t off. After Yoongi slipped into the peep toes as well, you pull the ribbons tight around this tiny ankles. He should wear these more often. You pick up a pack of makeup-wipes and stand up.

“Come play, sweet baby doll,” you whisper, pulling him toward the bedroom at his choker. He stumbles almost instantly over his own feet, having you catch him by the hips. 

“Heel first, toe second. Back straight. Remember what I told you earlier.”

“Yes, mommy, I’m sorry!” - “I’ll hold your hand, don’t worry now.”

You won’t let go even when you’re giving attention to his ass, lubing, massaging, and kissing his cheeks. 

“I’ll be your girl,” he writhes under the touch, “make me your girl, please.” You move aside the thong to make room at his asshole, guiding an index inside for him to stretch around. 

“Hush… Mommy takes care of you. Pout your lips for me, doll.”

And you’re starting to poke at his sweet spot, feeling his fingers tighten around your hand. Yoongi keeps his lips pursed until your reckless teasing parts his mouth. Litte moans escape, sounding suspiciously higher than usual. You use a second provocative finger to slide in slick, making his edge arrive at the rough and poignant flicks. Yoongi’s bandeau top almost comes down to his belly button when he winds in the sheets, heels kicking and almost poking holes in the fabric. He’s making a sticky mess in his underwear until his legs become still. 

You let go of his hand, readjust both stockings and bandeau. Then pull off your jeans and panties, dropping them at the foot of the bed.

“Now your turn,” you position yourself squatting just above his chin, “lick, then you can be my girl.”

His blush rubs off at the underside of your thighs while you keep moving, smudging all of the gloss and lipstick at your pubes and labia. More streaks of fuchsia smear up to his philtrum and nose when the pace becomes more relentless. His tongue throbs and gyrates carefully, but ends up causing even more chaos. Yoongi does his best to keep his eyes fixed on you, big and nymph-like. Sometimes when he blinks under your grinds gagging for air, his eyelashes get tangled. But separating them is no use for long. Your cum has started dripping toward his eyes already. When he bats his lids, little patches taint his cheeks and temples noir. You ride out your orgasm until the pillows are ruined with his make-up and sweat, praising. 

“Mommy, are you satisfied?” he tugs at his stockings coy, exhausted, still squinting. You pick up your come and his mascara with two thumbs from the inner corners of his eyes, reaching for the gentle tissues to wipe him down. It’s not to your surprise that he really loves that, so you waste six wipes on him even if you could’ve used just two.

“You did very well pleasing me, baby girl. Come over here, put your head in my lap. Want to hold hands again?” 


	2. Repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helping anxious Yoongi unwind with taking a bath and massaging him.

Yoongi thought the album would turn out to be a devastating failure.

Yes, it really would be. Somebody always found minor or major fault anywhere, that was completely natural. But with the current pressure from the public, the ubiquitous voices on social media, the company, the exhausted crew and members, all his raging critics, his brutal schedule, and lack of time to perfect the music the way he wanted it to be—

His skin was close to break out. That would ruin everything once and for all. He wanted to talk to you about his problems but felt that it wouldn’t change much. Showers were a good solace for the strain, plus getting any sleep he could sneak in. In the long run it made things worse.

Time was running out, causing more stress despite any attempts to relax. The expectations were too many to just lay down in a box and forget in a shaded corner. He didn’t want to see you pity him, too.

That would be the ultimate humilation. To stand before you as a giant loser with nothing in his hands to give or show. The great pretender spending hours in the studio with no results of worth. What if you hated the new songs? It seemed odd to Yoongi that it wasn’t just him who would set the standard for what was good about his work.

Knowing you had a good time listening was crucial, too. He gave infinitely more fucks than he wanted to admit. 

At some point Yoongi couldn’t keep his shit together, crashing at your house at 9 pm in a vortex of apathy. The relentless thoughts were on repeat. At this point he just needed anything, just anything to numb and drown them. Failure, failure, failure, nobody cares, he’s not competent enough, sales go down, his name is slandered. Inside you peel him out of his coat spotting traces of  _a beard_. If he doesn’t manage to even shave, then he hit rock bottom.

Maneuvering him to the living room is uncomfortably easy, he’s like a rag doll in your hands. Yoongi doesn’t talk or answer properly. Neither yes or no, not a maybe, not a sentence. It’s hopeless; if he would at least complain about something you’d be happy. 

Heating and feeding him some pancakes he remains just as silent and tense, seeming entirely bloodless. Normally he would get excited to eat, but no signal of that either. He robotically chugs down barely half a glass of sparkling water. Jimin’s number pops up on his phone screen, but nothing happens. If you would coax anything out now, that would probably destruct him as a final blow. 

You know he harbours many fears untold. But respecting Yoongi’s private character remains strictly important. Though you don’t want to leave him hanging here either where he’ll just collapse and sleep in all the sweaty mess he’s wearing. All you can do is tug his body to the bathroom to strip down the smelling clothes.

There are a lot of creases in them, much like Yoongi’s complexion looks strangely wrinkled. You last saw him in this condition somewhat after Jonghyun’s funeral. It’s calling for more desperate measures. 

You turn him to face away from the mirror for once, and start to razor down his neck knowing a stylist would come to fight you, but that doesn’t matter now. Yoongi immensely likes getting his hair done by you, the falling strands and stubble were just nice to feel.

The hair was long overgrown from an undercut since the coiffeur at BigHit would care more about dying Namjoon and Taehyung properly. He was glad, they left him and his roots alone. You touching his hair would be the only instance where he could really enjoy it, because Yoongi knew precisely what was coming. You finish blowing gently at his neck to remove the fussy hairs, making him shudder and hum just a bit. Good — a reaction. 

Now comes the shaving. Arguably Yoongi’s second favorite thing. Point-blank, you spread some cream around his jaw and cheeks, also rubbing down his tender throat. He closes his eyes. The blade slides down smooth and clean, leaving empty traces. Diligently, you go at the more complicated spots with added cream from your fingertips. The cut he gave himself five days ago has almost healed, but you still work around the scab not to risk anything.

The last bit is navigating the area around his elfin Adam’s apple with an expert swirl from both sides. Yoongi exhaling contently sounds like an elysian choir of angels to your ears. When you remove the cream he’s shifting from foot to foot suspiciously, making you look down. If that’s not a boner. The bathtub fills slowly while you shed your clothes, too. 

Yoongi’s wet back props up against your palms. The water is hot and cozy at the waist level and still pouring in softly. It’s got some bath salt added now, making the vapor hang fragrant with rosemary at the wooden ceiling. He’s so tiny between your legs. A bit of shampoo squeezed into your palms adds rich kardamom, sweet incense, and sandalwood. It’s a thick and sienna texture that feels like a mousse, almost. Luscious. 

You wash his hair and armpits down at a moment’s notice while he’s still damp, causing red bubbles to top the bath water. At the firm kneads of your fingers and delicately whispered “I love you”s, finally he loosens up around the shoulders. The last of his stiffness around the neck dissolves under the small circles of your thumbs. He’s getty breathy when you reach around to guide what else is painfully stiff inside a caress from your lax fist.

Stressed Yoongi is always quicker to come, so you make sure not to jerk him too hectically. He becomes whiny when you retreat the hand to massage his lower back. Instantly you return, sensitive tip slipping through the gap between your index and thumb. His neck stays still and tilted forward, watching with intent as you move.

The more you enliven him with stimulation, the hot water comes into effect as well. His head and cheeks gleam blossomed scarlet like carnations. Yoongi’s jaw falls slack under the fervid wails roused from his mouth as he releases. It’s so beautiful. Vast and flowing dew drops on a tulip in late April. 

As the bath water dwindles down, you heave him up and go fetch a black robe fleecy enough for your taste. Wrapped in, he appears so much better, and healthy. Before proceeding to get some makeup wipes, you bind a towel around your hips, ancient Egypt style. Now, off with all the chemicals on his face, the mismatched orange eyeshadow, overdrawn brows, bronzer. It’s caked on so much, no surprise he looks wrinkly and got troubled skin.

Gladly, the shaving has washed away some parts already. Yoongi always has a hard time removing his kajal because they put it on the waterline. You’re careful to drag down the lower lid and sweep away the color until he blinks. The toners, oils, masks, scrubs, moisturizers, powders, and lotions stay bottled where they are. Screw the skincare regimen, it doesn’t help on the inside. Tomorrow they’re applying it all over again but for now, you’re the one who’s seeing him. 

He wants to know if he looks okay when you rub down his hair with a towel. You assert he doesn’t look anywhere near okay. He looks  _great_. To pass your beauty test, you say, the first and last step is to have a bare face. All else is needless, insecure decor. He doesn’t need it. 

Blow-drying his hair he feels relaxed and casual now. Yoongi is stone-faced as usual and looking down, but no longer speechless. He mumbles that the comeback makes him anxious to show his music to everyone. You ask when someone gave such a negative reaction that it harmed him in the last two years or so, asking him to recall in detail. There isn’t much that comes to his mind. Sometimes he had been fazed or anticipating something bad, but not much more. He’s a self-proclaimed genius after all.

That’s good. You can see what the realization does to his features. It reminds him that the heavy expectations and raging critics start in his own mind only and nowhere else. You kiss Yoongi hard and yearning until the familiar blush sets in again.

“You did your best,” you pinch his cheek, “Trust your intuition. The people you’re afraid of have fears, too.”

“That’s not so important,” he shrugs, barely audible until you switch of the dryer. “I only want you to like my music.”

Oh. There it is. It’s not really ‘to everyone’. Just to you. This is the opinion that counts. It causes you smile.

“You know how I feel about it. Today I pre-ordered the second I could.” His eyes light up fast and excited at that. “If I do that,” you continue, “I already know it’s good. Confidence! You’re at a level where shitty music is impossible. That’s a fact. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my tumblr for more:
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